The Chariot, Reversed
by IanPhilippe
Summary: In the end, it's not Lucretia for whom he comes back, the one whom he searches for in the bloody chaos of the cathedral. [or 'It's Criminal There's No Lorenzo/Leo So Far, Shame and My Writing on You People'.]


"We had a contract! You break it, and I will be justified in depriving you of your freedom!" Lorenzo growls, all cold authority in his tone. Leo has always had trouble with accepting any sort of authority – maybe it was due to his father, who tried to be a dictator to Leo and failed; maybe it was because he learned early on that authorities liked to issue orders, but if he wanted answers to his never-ending questions, he had to find them on his own. After that realization, authority figures lost their power over his mind, and Leo was never too great in accepting their power over his life. Until Lorenzo, to whom he pledged allegiance willingly, on his own. Mostly to achieve his means, yes, but still… Leo shakes his head a little, eyes narrowing at Lorenzo's current show of power. He's always been good in handling those and not caring, but with what Leo knows about the current state of Lorenzo's alliances with other people, he feels a little sorry for leaving now.

"And what happened to the last man who tried to pen me up in Florence?" Leo asks, cocky and struggling to keep his freedom, because Lorenzo is the greatest commitment he's ever made in his life, and he can't have it thrown into his face so blatantly.

"You'll find me more of a match to you than that hapless magistrate, I think," Lorenzo quirks an eyebrow, and Leo keeps silent for a moment, imagining all the schemes Lorenzo could employ to truly get Leonardo da Vinci erased from the world. There's a certain thrill to the knowledge that Lorenzo could pull it off, but he won't – he needs Leo, even if he won't admit it aloud.

"I would," Leo answers simply – there's no point in denying that Lorenzo is a challenge, one that Leo hasn't mapped so far, and it's fascinating just to think of trying to oppose this powerful man.

"What about a small duchy of your own? That would give you the freedom to amass all the knowledge you'd like."

It has come to bribery now, and Leo isn't sure if he should be amused or horrified. Mostly, he imagines his father's face if Leonardo suddenly became a land-owner, a nobleman, with Lorenzo's blessing and backing. Strangely, it is Lorenzo's support that both tempts and scares Leo, pulling him in and pushing him further away in equal measures, more than the imagined satisfaction of throwing his achievements in his father's face.

"And… you have duchies sitting around to hand out like party favors," he mocks, sets his bag on the chair and looks at Lorenzo. He knows he has to tell Lorenzo about the Duke of Urbino, but he's not looking forward to Lorenzo's rage at the news. He's not disappointed - Lorenzo's lip trembles with badly suppressed fury, and Leonardo feels like he's watching a caged lion, on the verge of slamming itself against the bars holding it from freedom. He half-expects Lorenzo to lunge at him as he has a few times already, the veil of cultured diplomacy falling away to reveal the raw aggression at Lorenzo's center, that ugly violent core that makes him all the more beautiful to Leo, intriguing at a dangerous level. He knows he's walking on thin ice here, but he enjoys watching that secret, bubbling-under-the-surface part of Lorenzo the most; it's like seeing a vein of gold flash from under the hard, solid stone, seeing something other people can't, and that's something Leo has always loved more than anything, watching and assessing and calculating and feeling the awe at witnessing some wonder of nature. Trying to understand it, reproduce it; Leo hasn't even tried yet, hasn't drawn Lorenzo for fear that charcoal might not capture the unyielding, yet animated energy that is the head of the Medici house. He's an unfulfilled dream, one that keeps Leo's sleep restless even on the rare occasions he doesn't get regular nightmares. Lorenzo is not one of Leo's demons; he is a suffocating heat of a well-heated room on a winter day, warming the bones and making it difficult to breathe at the same time; a silk rope gently brushing skin and biting into it in another moment. He's a maze yet to be solved, an eagle in flight ready to be drawn and yet moving too fast to follow.

Lorenzo is all that even as he slumps, leaning against his desk, and the expected outburst doesn't happen. Instead, Lorenzo looks a little lost, and it's an unbecoming look on him. It makes him less of a Muse and more human, something Leo does and does not appreciate in equal measure.

"So. As you desert me, you bring me words that my only other source of military defense… is a sham," Lorenzo laughs quietly, and the sound twists tight in Leo's stomach – Lorenzo's chuckles ring with the knowledge of defeat and the inability to admit it. It makes Leo want to steer the conversation elsewhere, even if through a lame joke, make Lorenzo angry instead of crushed.

"You approached him because you knew he had a price, yes? Someone outbid you!"

"Fuck you," Lorenzo spits, eyes narrow and voice thick, and Leonardo winces – there's no heat behind the words. It's not right. Then Lorenzo focuses his anger on listing all of Leo's faults as an artist – there are many, Leo knows. He's good, maybe even great, but his inspiration comes in short, single-minded bursts of obsession and he hardly ever finishes his commissions; Lorenzo has known this, and yet, he employed Leonardo anyway. Leo has to wonder if it's because Lorenzo never truly wished for Lucrezia's portrait to be finished, or if Leo's merit as a war engineer outweighed his irresponsibility as a painter.

Or maybe… maybe. Leo does not dare to think of another reason why Lorenzo could want him near.

"I gave you the most desirable woman in Florence as a subject-"

"But she was never my subject," Leonardo interrupts, and he cannot look at Lorenzo as the words fall from his lips. He cannot, lest Lorenzo see it in his eyes, Leo's real challenge, his subject of choice which he never had. His fascination with the raw power, with the solid lines and strength and authority and kind eyes that can turn hard and demanding in a split second.

Lorenzo has to sense the shift in Leo's look – he turns away, regroups quickly as can be expected of a Medici, a banker and a diplomat of Lorenzo's reputation.

"You and I love this city," he says, and Leo wants to laugh – he doesn't give a fuck about the city itself, the city that has betrayed him, almost killed him, but when Lorenzo turns back with his hopeful, almost pleading "do we not?", Leo is incapable of blurting out the string of insults to Florence that has been playing inside of his head. Because it's Lorenzo who loves Florence, and Leo cannot bring himself to crush that glimmer of hope in Lorenzo's eyes, to pour water over those still-hot coals of their alliance. He doesn't want to see Lorenzo hopeless – it's an ugly sight, and Leo is all about beauty in his life.

It's just that the things he considers beautiful have aesthetic value solely to him, sometimes.

"We do," he breathes out, and wonders if this is another strategy, if he's being played by a master of his craft.

"Then help me save it," Lorenzo whispers, walks straight into Leo's space with eyes burning and his hands burning imprints into the skin of Leo's neck, and it's naked honesty Leo sees in his eyes. This is not a game – and maybe that's what tightens around Leo's throat more viciously than Lorenzo's solid, gentle touch.

"What else can I give you?" Lorenzo asks, urgent and promising Leonardo anything.

For a moment, audacity rises like a wave out of Leonardo's chest, floods his mind and shows him what he wants. He will ask now, will be given what he desires. Lorenzo's eyes will flash with anger at first, his fists curled into Leo's shirt; Leo's back will collide with the nearest column, hard and uncompromising, Lorenzo hurling insult after insult at him; and after that, the lips spilling abuse will descend in agreement onto Leo's, bruising and biting and tasting of both distaste and desire.

Leonardo can imagine sprawling over that large desk of Lorenzo's, documents flying and ink spilling over the floor. They would not care, hands and mouths and minds too busy, too focused on each other, Lorenzo set on keeping Leo in Florence. And Leo would not stay, of course he wouldn't, not for a tumble between the sheets (or on a desk), but oh, he'd be swayed, his resolve challenged with every bite Lorenzo would press into his skin.

But ultimately, he wouldn't stay. He knows it, and by the look in Lorenzo's eyes, underneath all that hope, Lorenzo knows as well. He can't stay any more than he can ask Lorenzo to take him to bed, even if one part of him wants to, craves stripping Lorenzo of the polished diplomacy sewn into his uptight, regal coat, desires to see him free, fluid and breezy like that one time in that villa just out of the city, with Lorenzo simply in his undershirt and breeches, his chest showing and fuelling Leo's lust.

Until Lucrezia peeked into the door. She's doing it even now, peeking right over the edge of Leo's consciousness, asking what will become of her if Lorenzo has no need of her anymore, if Leo abandons her for a strong line of a cleanly-shaved jaw. He cannot bear the betrayed look in her eyes, even though only imagined at the moment, if Leo asks for what he desires – he has never been great with betrayal, and it is enough he has to hide his want for her from Lorenzo. If he had to hide from her as well, worry all the time if Lorenzo could taste her on Leo's breath, if she could see the imprints of Lorenzo's hands on Leo's hips… he would go mad. She has betrayed him, yes, numerous times – he knows it now… but he can't stand the idea of this beautifully maddening need for Lorenzo tinged with the mud of revenge.

Lorenzo merely looks at him, as if he truly awaits an answer, a magical solution keeping Leo here. But Leo feels stifled, suffocated here; pressed between his want for Lucrezia and his need for Lorenzo. His gaze travels to the side, catches on the lines he created himself, rendering Lucrezia's face with startling precision. Right now, the unfinished portrait stares guilt right into Leo's heart, even if all he wants is to lean into Lorenzo's presence, bask in it like a cat in the sun.

"What about her?" he asks, and the moment is broken – Lorenzo's hands slip away from Leo's shoulders and he misses them instantly, almost swaying forward to follow their warmth. Instead, he barrels on with the demand that buries him further and further into the pit of unfulfilled want, like an idea at the back of his mind that just won't form into proper words, staying just out of Leo's reach, at the edge of his consciousness all the time. Just like Lorenzo… forever untouchable and never truly gone from mind. "Her husband's clearly not an obstacle."

"What, do you think I would just… toss her to you, just like that?" Lorenzo spits in disgust, and Leo knows that Lorenzo is not so much in love as he is in lust with Lucrezia, but the way he blatantly refuses to just shove her into another man's bed like a common whore is strangely endearing – and painful.

"You have a wife, who has her charms, who needs attention…" Leo argues – it's not that he wants Lucrezia forever, not even for a prolonged period of time. Her charm is in her sudden arrivals, quick disappearances, the suspense, the wait. Leo would tire of her quickly if he had her all to himself – he only asks for her to keep Lorenzo away from himself, to not jump over that edge that leads to insanity.

There's clear anger in Lorenzo's face – Leo waits for a fist to come flying for just a moment, but he continues, unable to stop himself on this slippery slope. "How much does Lucrezia mean to you, Lorenzo?" he asks, and it's not so much about her as it is about _him_, 'how much do I mean to you, Lorenzo, compared to her'. "Are you willing to set aside your toy to keep me in Florence?"

He knows the question is unfair, to himself, because he will have to hear the answer now, and to Lorenzo, who cannot truly answer either way, his reputation versus his military strategy on the line, and he cannot afford to lose one or the other. For a moment, Lorenzo looks at him, and Leo can read the dilemma in his face and a low thrum of excitement shivers through his body, wondering what will Lorenzo choose, what will his answer be-

-and then they're interrupted by the news of Giuliano. Lorenzo rushes out, forgetting everything and everyone except his brother, and Leo cannot blame him; he only has his obsession with his mother to think about, but if family is anything like that, then he knows how easy it is to set aside everything else on the quest to protect or find one's own blood.

Yet, he blames Lorenzo just a tiny bit – for a few seconds, all he can do is stand there and stare into nowhere. He looks around the room, memorizing the shapes, colors and shadows of this particular space, Lorenzo's space – he will not set foot in it for quite some time. Maybe never again… who knows how things will play out?

Leo casts one last regretful, exasperated look at Lucrezia's portrait, briefly wonders how much easier it would have been if she had not existed – and he feels immensely guilty for that thought, because she was the means that got him here in the first place. Without her, he would have never got this close to Lorenzo… with her, he can never get closer, close enough.

He leaves the room in a hurry, before the smells and sights of it can etch too deeply into his heart.

He can't stand looking at Lucrezia when she comes – half-lies and truths twisted like vines spill from her mouth, curl around Leo's heart, trying to enslave him, _again_. He faces her, bitter, raw betrayal burning wet paths down his cheeks; he wishes he could hurt her, for all she has taken from him, for all she has given in order to keep him close enough to truly would. He takes his petty revenge by pushing the truth of her father's imprisonment right to her eyes, so she cannot look away any longer – the pain on her face, the disbelief, is almost satisfying enough for him to kiss her again. He's close, his lips brushing hers, and he imagines there's a trace of Lorenzo's mouth right there. He pulls away before the thought can burn him, lead him astray from his path.

In the end, it's not Lucrezia for whom he comes back, the one whom he searches for in the bloody chaos of the cathedral.

But she's the one who, once again, turns Lorenzo from him, just as he asks Leonardo to accept his love; and Leo is tempted to say that he will, that he wants nothing more, that he wants to choke on all that Lorenzo can offer until he will be sated and sick of it – but Lucrezia's ring catches Lorenzo's eye, as if she is a curse laid upon Leo's life, a curse he cannot – or will not – lift.

Lorenzo's eyes harden again, and Leonardo's world explodes.


End file.
